


Cupcakes and Camellias

by CallipygianGoldfish



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 08:44:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20543336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallipygianGoldfish/pseuds/CallipygianGoldfish
Summary: It’s not quite a mid-life crisis that lands him in the middle of the countryside with a bakery on his hands, but on the other hand, it most definitely is. Kicked out of his bookshop by an irate but well-meaning friend, Aziraphale attempts negotiating life in a small village, baking piña colada bread, and duckpond dates.When the new bakery owner moves in opposite his flower shop, Crowley doesn’t give it another thought, until he’s forced to go searching for his missing devil-cat. And well, if he spends the rest of the day in shock, can you blame him? Nobody said the new baker was positively gorgeous.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two idiots, and I love baking AUs, so I had to <3

Anathema is a woman of great strength, but sometimes, she feels like she has very little patience to deal with men. In particular, the man who is currently standing in the middle of his bookshop, poring over a manuscript and studiously ignoring her and every customer in sight.

“Aziraphale? I need April’s figures to send to Peter, have we got anything to add?” 

“Hmm, no, don’t think so.” He pushes his glasses further up his nose and turns a page.

“Aziraphale. Sales figures, now.” 

“Yes, dear? Oh, yes the figures,” he says, finally closing his book and crossing over to the register counter. He scans the paperwork by the till, frowning, and Anathema grits her teeth as she waits. “No, nothing more, not to my knowledge.” 

Oh Lord, give her courage. When she’d been promoted from assistant to the position of bookshop manager, little did she know that she’d have to wrestle Aziraphale every single time a customer wished to buy something. After starting to work at the store during university, it had grown to be such a big part of her life that she couldn’t bear to see it crumble. It had now been three months since the last big sale, and she was starting to get nervous. 

It wasn’t that Aziraphale was a bad business man. In fact, when he had something to sell and a mildly interested customer, he could squeeze water from a stone with his charm. But no amount of charm could save a shop when the owner refused to sell anything, and with his reluctance growing by the day, Anathema knew that he just couldn’t bear to part with any of the current stock. They both desperately needed a holiday. 

She sends a quick email off to their accountant and considers her options again. Either Aziraphale stayed, and his own business ran itself into the ground, or it might survive if she could convince him to take a step back. She’d probably have better luck suggesting that he ran away to Spain and started a goat farm. 

“When was the last time you took a day off?” She stands with her hands on her hips as Aziraphale sorts through over the large box of books on the counter. They’d arrived in bulk earlier that day from an auction that they couldn’t actually afford, and he was clearly dying to look through them.

“Hmm?” He takes out a slim volume and ignores her glare.

“Actually, come to think of it, when was the last time you left this shop?” Anathema shakes her head as Aziraphale makes another non-committal hum. “C’mon man, I know you think you’re old, but life doesn’t just stop working even if your knees do!”

“There’s nothing wrong with my knees.” 

“Good. Then there’s nothing preventing you from coming with me to Adam’s birthday party. I know you got an invite, because I read your mail, and you don’t have an excuse.”

Aziraphale finally looks up from the box and sighs at her over his glasses. “Anathema, I really can’t. There’s things to do here, my accounts are in a dire situation and I’ve got stock to check through. And I am not a child to be chastised on my lack of social engagement, thank you very much.”

“Your accounts are dire because you refuse to sell anything. You need a holiday, a drink, or at least for someone else to take the reins here for a bit. Come with me, give yourself a break and get out of here. Let me do the hard stuff, and finally learn to delegate.” Anathema says it as if he doesn’t have a choice, and hopes desperately that she can bully him into leaving. It won’t be easy, but she needs to put space between him and the books, even just for an afternoon. “We haven’t seen the Youngs since they moved to Tadfield, and I know you miss seeing them around.”

“My dear, it’s not that easy, I have work and-”

“Aziraphale, if you don’t come with me, I swear to God I will ring that nice man back and tell him that yes, we do in fact have a first edition Proust and yes, I’d be happy to sell it to him.” Anathema narrows her eyes and tries to make herself threatening enough for him to take her seriously.

Aziraphale gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. And we’re taking Adam some books as well, god knows we’ve got enough of them.”

“Oh, very well,” he says with a sigh. “I suppose I can spare a few hours. This Saturday, I presume?”

“Actually, we’re half an hour late. I told Mrs Young I’d pick you up and we’d be there by three, so get your coat on.”

*

The party turns out to be more like a family barbeque, with Mr Young churning out a variety of charred things in buns while the kids run around with Adam’s newest present, a set of Nerf weapons. It’s a warm day, and Aziraphale is content to sit listening to Anathema and Mrs Young catch up on what’s been happening since the Youngs moved away. The family used to live above the bookshop until Adam turned old enough for secondary school, and Aziraphale had grown used to seeing them around the shop. He was always happy to take Adam shopping for the latest sci-fi and horror paperbacks, and they both shared a forbidden love of cream cakes. 

“…and the school’s just down the road, it’s lovely to send them off in the morning and not worry about the traffic, and over there is the Spar. It only really sells milk and eggs, but we get Tesco deliveries, you know,” Mrs Young says. “Tadfield’s quite small, but they’ve made us feel very welcome.”

“And that?” Aziraphale points at a darkened storefront across the street with a green closed sign in the window.

“Oh, that’s the old bakery, such a shame really, Mrs Tidball retiring really put a spanner in all our works,” Mrs Young says with a tut. “The bread from Spar really isn’t the same.” She sighs, and Aziraphale considers the shop. 

“Oh really? No family taking it on then?” He’s always liked cake, it’s a shame to let a good establishment go to waste.

“We’d hoped the youngest would, but she’s moved to London to have a baby. There’s a flat upstairs and everything, just right for a young couple – or perhaps a handsome bachelor like yourself.” Mrs Young laughs and gestures to the barbeque where Mr Young is turning sausages with a lean, well-dressed man in sunglasses. “I’d better go and see how he’s getting on, he does have a tendency to overcook the burgers, and I’m not sure how long Crowley can control him. Enjoy the party Aziraphale, it’s lovely to see you again.”

“Thank you, Mrs Young.” Aziraphale smiles and watches her navigate the dangerous lawn where the younger spawn are pelting each other with foam pellets. It seems sad that the only parties he goes to now are his godson’s, and to be quite honest, Anathema’s words earlier had struck a chord in him. He’d been perfectly content throughout the years without anyone else around, and he’d let his books surround him as if they were family, but suddenly he sees all the opportunities he’d never taken. Here in the sun with neighbours and families around him, he almost thinks he’s missed something.

“What are you thinking?” Anathema asks him between mouthfuls of cake. It was good cake too, triple chocolate with buttercream icing on top.

“That I’m too old and too daft and really, my dear, I don’t know what I’m thinking.” It slips out before Aziraphale can stop it, and he realises he might be having a mid-life crisis. 

“Hmm.” Anathema nods. “Yeah, I can see that. But you’re definitely thinking of something. You look…”

“Handsome?”

“Conniving, I was going to say.” She points at the old bakery. “You’re interested in it.”

“Anathema, I don’t know what I’m interested in,” he admits. “There’s my books, I can’t leave them, and the shop of course. But it might be nice to come out here to Tadfield a bit more, I must say. The place feels a bit more, you know, alive.” 

“You heard Mrs Young. There’s a job opportunity here for a baker, or at least for some sort of shop,” she says. “And you certainly know your cakes.”

“My dear, I’m fifty next year! Can’t be galivanting off to strange places on a whim you know.” He nods sagely and tries to convince himself that he does not, in fact, need a bakery. Not even one in a delightful small village where he already knows his neighbours, with low air pollution and a pleasant village green with what seem to be a few ducks. He’s always liked ducks.

“So? Tadfield’s not exactly strange or exotic.” Anathema elbows him and he resists the urge to shove her back like a teenager. “London’s not going anywhere. You can always give it a shot. Ask Mrs Young, I bet the old baker would be glad someone’s taking it on, the rent won’t be too high out here.”

“I... I know nothing about baking!”

“Then you learn.” Anathema wipes crumbs off her shirt and tilts her head towards the other guests. “Whoever made that cake is probably a good place to start. I want another bit.”

Aziraphale starts to smile with the ludicrous idea of it. All the story needed was a tall, handsome stranger and it would seem to be straight out of a romance novel. “It could be called… Angelic Cakes. In memory of all the soft pastries and little Choux buns from the Paris of my youth. We could do bread. And flapjack!” 

“See, you are interested.” Anathema sounds proud. “And you do need a break from the shop. You can always try it for a few months and see how it goes.”

“Hmm.” He hopes he sounds noncommittal, but he can’t help but feel a flutter of excitement at the prospect. Starting anew somewhere did have an appeal, and after all, there was no harm in thinking about things. Having thoughts didn’t have to mean making plans. “You’d look after the shop?”

“Not in the same way you would, but it would start to make money, if that’s what you mean,” Anathema says. “You could always just take the flat on a temporary basis, pop back to London on the weekends.”

“I don’t know, Anathema.” Aziraphale shakes his head and looks back to the party. “Doesn’t this all sound a little silly?”

“People have done sillier things, boss,” she says. “There’s no harm in asking. We’re not driving back ‘til later tonight, we’ve got time.”

It turned out that Mrs Tidball was quite happy to rent the shop and flat above it to Aziraphale on a rolling contract. She was also quite desperate to let it out as soon as possible, given that she wanted to visit her granddaughter and not wait around for the fuss associated with viewings and estate agents. Aziraphale and Anathema get home to the book store later that night, both of them squiffy on the wine and leaning on one another for support, while Aziraphale declares to the books on the shelves that he loved them all intensely and would take them all with him.

And suddenly there he was, in the middle of an empty bakery he apparently was now renting, without a single clue of how to actually make a cupcake. Oh well, he’d spent quite a bit of time with Delia in the 70’s, he’s sure he understands the basics. Without further ado he picks out a pink and white striped apron and gets to work. 

Thankfully, three days later after he’s nearly burnt half the village down, he discovers that Mrs Tidball did not in fact make the cakes all by herself. Instead, she had hired a nice young student from the next village over to do so, and after a little cajoling, Aziraphale had a willing helping hand. Or more like, a bossy controlling hand, as it turned out that Michael was the obvious boss of the bakery, and Aziraphale was just a pawn in their game to be used as and when they chose to take over the world.

His first week hadn’t gone as terribly as he had feared. It transpired that although Aziraphale fit the expected aesthetic of a baker, he had no idea what he was doing when it came to making things. He’s thankful that after a few fuck-ups, Michael had rolled up their sleeves and strongly elbowed him out of the way. After a little negotiation, they’d agreed that Aziraphale could sell their products and brainstorm new ideas, and Michael would be the guiding hand that Aziraphale desperately needed. Part-timing as a bakery assistant, Michael was currently studying gender studies at the local university and had been baking since they were a child. Aziraphale is relieved that his cooking wasn’t going to actually poison his customers, and Michael insisted that he learned at least basic bread making before they allowed Aziraphale to help out in the back room. 

The customers don’t seem to mind though, and it allows him to experiment with some new ideas. He turns out to be average at breadmaking, terrible at pastry, and fabulous at cookies, and Michael will occasionally let him bake a cake without too much eye rolling.

*

Crowley has never confessed to being a nice man, but over the years he’s found out that a lot of people confuse him for one. His plants, however, aren’t allowed such a privilege. He discovered early in his botanical career that it’s actually fear that makes plants grow best, and due to a healthy dose of terror now and then, his foliages are known throughout Oxford. He prides himself knowing every meaning that each flower has, and remembers every detail of each bouquet he sells. He’s thorough, meticulous, slightly intimidating, and currently struggling to find his cat to feed him his breakfast.

“Lucy!” Crowley opens the front door of his shop and bangs a metal spoon against his devil-cat’s dish. Casting a glance around the village square, he huffs as Sharon from the Spar gives him a dirty look, and yells again. Loudly. “Lucy!”

There is no answering miaow, and Crowley has just resigned himself to spending the morning searching for his stupid cat when he hears a voice from across the square. It looked like someone had taken on the old bakery and was currently setting a few folding chairs outside in the sun. Dressed in a tartan jumper and smart trousers, the man was carefully dusting off the small tables, and Crowley narrows his eyes. There, winding himself around the man’s legs and looking for a snack, is his devil-cat. Crowley sighs and puts down the cat food, before making his way across the street.

“Morning,” Crowley says, making himself known. 

The man looks up at Crowley’s voice and smiles, and Crowley swallows hard. Nobody had said the new baker was positively gorgeous. 

“Oh, good morning to you too,” the man says. “Isn’t it lovely? I do love this time of year, the sun is shining for once, and winter seems so far away. I don’t think we’ve been introduced, I’m Aziraphale. Pleasure to meet you.” He holds out a hand, and Crowley takes it. 

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Crowley says, taken aback by the man’s smile and soft-looking curly hair. “I’m uh, Crowley, I work at the flower shop.”

“Ah, Mrs Young did mention we had an excellent florist in the village,” Aziraphale says. “I haven’t been here that long, I’m afraid, still getting to know everyone. 

“Mmm.” Crowley hums and nods. “Take your time, it’s a small place. But right now, I don’t suppose I can have Lucy back?”

Aziraphale looks bemused but smiles nonetheless. “Lucy? I’m not sure what you mean, is that a type of bread? I’m afraid Michael hasn’t finished today’s batch, but there’s some sourdough from yesterday if you’re interested?”

Crowley blinks a few times, and looks down. “Cat.” He berates his brain for leaving the station without saying goodbye, and coughs slightly. “You’ve uh, got my cat. I need it back. It’s called Lucy, it needs breakfast.”

“Oh, this little chappie?” Aziraphale asks, looking down at the tail currently curling around his knees. The traitor meows pitifully and Aziraphale bends down to run a hand over the cat’s back. “I did wonder who this beauty belonged to. Are you Lucy, oh yes you are, what a good cat you are.” 

Crowley stares at the man cooing over the cat wrapped around his legs and feels his last little bits of evil tendencies fly out of his head and get run over by a car. It can’t be helped if the first thought that goes through his head is yes, there is my future husband. Swallowing hard to dismiss the idea from his brain, he watches as Lucy laps up the attention.

“He’s really not a very good cat, you know,” he mentions. “If you ever lose a finger or two to him, please don’t complain to me.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t do such a thing, oh no, he wouldn’t,” Aziraphale coos and scratches the cat under the chin. Lucy starts to purr in satisfaction and looks far too smug for Crowley’s liking. “But I’m sure he wants his breakfast.”

“Nah, it’s in the kitchen if he wants it, I just like to check every now and then that he’s still alive,” Crowley says with a shrug. “You can keep him for now, if you want. Just remember to let him outside in the evening. He’s got enough road sense to not get run over, but sometimes he does go begging house to house and all I end up with is a floor covered in vomit.”

“Very pleasant,” the man says with a smile. “Well, it was lovely to meet you, if Lucy ever comes begging to me I’ll be sure to send him straight back. And uh, may I ask why the curious name for such an apparently vicious chap?”

“Oh, yeah, it confuses a lot of people.” Crowley nods. “Lucifer. His name is Lucifer.”

Aziraphale laughs and Crowley can’t help but smile back. Leaving him to unpack the rest of the chairs, Crowley backs away with a hand raised in a half wave. The cat, nonplussed, starts to wash its balls, before following Aziraphale back to the bakery, and Crowley watches from across the road as the bakery opens and people start to trickle in. News had already spread fast about the reopening, and Crowley suspects that it won’t be long until Aziraphale has to fend off offers of marriage from the village’s geriatric population. 

Opening his own shop for the day, he resists the urge to shred a poinsettia and instead thinks that he should probably go and buy some bread soon. And since he did have a big wedding order to fill, maybe it would be best to investigate whether they were planning on selling sandwiches for lunch too. Dragging himself out a daydream, he remembers he needs to finish finalising the details on the posies the bride wanted on the table, and soon becomes swamped in deliveries and paperwork. 

Lucy returns late in the evening with a smugness that Crowley thinks is due to his fat belly and milk stained whiskers, and yet Crowley still feeds him dinner. You’d think he’d know better by now, but pitiful miaows are hard to ignore in the middle of the night when your devil-cat is standing on the microwave and yelling.

*

Crowley carefully doesn’t think about the new baker for two days before he caves and goes to the bakery one morning. Aziraphale has repainted the front of the shop, making the row of houses picture card perfect, and there’s a new hanging flower basket above the door. Crowley doesn’t know why he’s so nervous, it’s not like him to care about what the other shops in the village are up to, but there’s something about Aziraphale that he can’t quite put his finger on. He refuses to think of it as a crush, merely professional curiosity, but that doesn’t stop him from wondering what Aziraphale’s background was, and whether he was single or not.

“Hello?” The bell jangles and the door closes behind him, but there’s no one by the till or in the small shop area. “Anyone around?” 

“One second!” a voice yells from the backroom, and Crowley pokes his head around the open door. 

“Oh, Crowley, perfect!” Aziraphale is standing by a sink, elbow deep in a large bowl, and mostly covered in flour. “Give me three minutes and I’ll be with you. Michael?” He looks around for Michael, who seems to have vanished, and frowns. 

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Was just, uh, after some bread.” Crowley blinks as Aziraphale tips out a mound of dough and starts to knead it. Shirtsleeves rolled up, Crowley’s eyes are drawn to the muscles in Aziraphale’s arms as the mixture is rolled and pummelled into something resembling bread. If he’d known he would be getting such a show he would have brought popcorn, he thinks to himself as he watches Aziraphale’s hands sink into the dough and stretch it out on the board. “No rush.”

“Any particular bread we can help you with?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley shakes his head. “Uh, white. I’m not fussy. Preferably vaguely edible? To be honest, it could even be inedible, I eat everything.”

“Everything?” Aziraphale lifts his eyebrows with a smile. “Even piña colada cake? Because I have yet to find anyone who wants to try it except Michael, and in my humble opinion, it is fantastic.”

“I’ll give it a shot,” Crowley says, shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t be worse than that rose and honey cake that Michael once made for someone’s leaving do. Absolutely disgusting.” His nose curls up and Aziraphale laughs, the bread in his hands starting to come together.

“What?” The walk-in fridge opens and Michael frowns out of it. “You talking about me again?”

Aziraphale looks bewildered. “Have you been in there this whole time?”

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t you cold?”

Michael shrugs. “I run hot.”

Aziraphale finishes kneading the dough and places it in an oiled bowl to rise, before washing his hands and dusting down his apron. 

“I’m done now anyway, was it just some bread for you Crowley?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.” 

Aziraphale picks up a loaf cooling on the rack, and a tray from the side. “Here, before you go, try these.” 

The rolls are small and crumble between his lips, but almost seem to explode with flavour on the inside. He devours it quickly, and Aziraphale beams with pride as Crowley nods his appreciation.

“They’re quite nice, aren’t they?” Aziraphale says happily. “I had this idea and just had to try it out. Michael kindly obliged, and they got them absolutely perfect on the second batch.”

Crowley looks at Michael with a questioning glance. “Mrs Tidball didn’t sell these?”

“Nah.” Michael shrugs. “All his idea. Pineapple and coconut, hence the piña colada.”

“Is that so?” Crowley raises his eyebrows. The man looks pretty and can actually cook? The world is full of good surprises.

“He’s actually not terrible at recipe design,” Michael says. “Surprisingly.”

“Hey!” Aziraphale tries to sound insulted but is obviously pleased at the thought of being a natural baker. “I do enjoy trying new things, especially when it comes to the cakes,” he admits.

“I won’t protest, these are damn good.” Crowley savours the last of the cake and concludes that if this kept up, Aziraphale will be very welcome around the village. The ladies at the WI in particular were suckers for a good sponge. Anything that revived the village fair’s baking competition was sure to win some hearts around here.

“I really want to do some cinnamon buns as well, she left a recipe but apparently they never rose quite right,” Aziraphale continues. “We can do some tweaking to it, I’m sure.”

“They’ll be much appreciated,” Crowley says with a nod. “Actually, pretty much anything that’s not from an instant mix is appreciated around here. And even if you do use boxed cake, if you add in an extra egg and decorate it nicely? No one will know.” 

“Speaking from experience then?”

Crowley shrugs. “Don’t tell Marjorie from the chemist’s, but the true winner of last year’s fete’s vanilla sponge category was in fact Waitrose’s own brand.”

Aziraphale laughs. “I’ll keep it in mind. So tell me Crowley, are you from around here?” He puts the loaf of bread in a paper bag and they head out to the till.

“Oh, no, I moved a few years ago from London,” Crowley says, handing over some coins. What he doesn’t say is that he’d been put on indefinite leave after refusing to take bribery from an architecture firm who wanted to work on a site of special interest in his borough. “Used to work for the grid, but fancied a change, more or less.”

Aziraphale’s face lit up. “Very similar to myself! My friend Anathema thought it best that I take a little break from my store in Soho.” Aziraphale sighs. “There comes a time, about half way through a century, when you start to wonder whether it’s all worth it.” 

“It normally is, you know.” Crowley shrugs. “Most people just buy a Harley-Davidson and get a bad haircut. I got a cat to find a sense of meaning in life, you just took a trickier route.”

“And it took most of my retirement savings.” Aziraphale makes a face and Crowley suppresses a snort. He pays for the bread and Aziraphale convinces him to take a few more pineapple rolls with him, before he has to get back to the floral arrangements he was working on. Something about Aziraphale gets under his skin and makes him flutter, and it takes him a few minutes to shake off the feeling. He returns to his backroom to scream at his plants for an hour or so, and soon enough he feels normal enough to glare at anyone who dares disturb his work.


	2. Chapter 2

Later in the week, the bell on the door jingles, and Crowley looks up from the counter to see Aziraphale glancing around. A fresh shipment of flowers has filled the air with the heady sweet scent of lilies and lavender, pots of the purple herb spilling out from under the counter. Aziraphale stops to sniff almost every bunch on his way over to Crowley, and something twitches in Crowley’s stomach. He watches as Aziraphale’s nose wrinkles at the scents he’s not a fan of, and finds that he can tell the ones Aziraphale does like by his surprised eyebrow raise.

Crowley shakes himself out a stupor. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Aziraphale says, looking up from examining a label on a nasturtium. “I thought I’d pop by while it was quiet at the bakery, Michael seems to have quite a handle on things. Or rather, I have been forcibly removed from the bakery and told to not return until lunch.”

“Yeah, best to do what Michael says.” Crowley nods. “I think they’ve just got used to Mrs Tidball going down the pub for most of the day, and now you’re actually sticking around the bakery? It’s unexpected.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “I’m a little confused, I must say, but it’s a welcome break from the shop. Thought I should pop round while I had the chance, and I do need some flowers. And well, it feels so loved in here Crowley! I can see you clearly adore your plants,” he says, smiling knowingly at Crowley.

“Yes.” Crowley eyeballs a nearby plant that seems to be looking perkier than usual at Aziraphale’s words. “Love. That’s definitely it.” He takes the secateurs back out of his pocket and open them, holding them up behind his back to rest against a rather large azalea. Aziraphale wanders over to a large house palm and Crowley whispers under his breath.

“Don’t even think about being loved or I’ll feed you to the incinerator, you little brat,” he says to the azalea, running the blade along one of the leaves. 

Aziraphale turns back. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Oh, nothing.” Crowley closes the blades and puts them away absently. “Just, uh, doing a little threatening. I mean, pruning. You know how it is, sometimes they can get a little full of themselves,” he says, glaring at the greenery.

“Full of themselves? Plants? Why, Crowley, you do talk such nonsense.” Aziraphale smiles. “Plants grow wonderfully with a little love and kindness, as I’m sure you know very well.”

“And fear,” Crowley mutters. “But anyway, what can I do for you today, Aziraphale?” 

“I’m looking for a thank-you present,” he says. “Something I can send to London this week.”

“Wife or husband related?” Subtle, Crowley, subtle. He winces inwardly, but Aziraphale laughs. 

“Oh heavens, no. Something that suggests gratitude and a little bit of love?”

“Hmm.” Crowley casts his mind back to his flowers meaning thankfulness. “How much are you looking to spend?”

“Oh, money shouldn’t be a problem,” Aziraphale says, dismissing the idea with a hand. “She deserves it after all she’s done. Helped me out quite a bit over the last few months, and given me quite the kick when I needed one desperately.”

“In that case, shall I suggest some ideas and we’ll go from there? Perhaps geranium as a base?” His mind already churning out ideas, Crowley crosses over to a jug full of lush greenery with red flowers. “True friendship and all that shit?”

Aziraphale makes a noise that might have been a suppressed snort. “Sounds good.”

“What do you think about pink hydrangeas? It might go well with the red, and we could add some sweet peas for scent?”

“Oh, I do adore sweet peas,” Aziraphale says, lighting up in interest. “They smell almost as gorgeous as honeysuckle. I think that would be lovely.” 

Crowley collects, snips, and arranges the flowers while Aziraphale wanders the shop floor, occasionally exclaiming his love for a certain plant or bloom. Crowley listens idly as he tells the flowers that they’re doing well and he’s proud of them, and makes a note to himself to go around afterwards and make sure the plants know their place. Aziraphale shyly puts a pot of rosemary on the counter as well, explaining that he wanted some for experimenting recipes with, and Crowley throws in a small tub of basil for free. 

Crowley wonders who the mystery woman is that Aziraphale was buying flowers for, out of purely professional curiosity of course, but consoles himself with the fact that he hasn’t yet wanted flowers symbolising romance. The bouquet itself is stunning, if he does say so himself, and he’s proud of the way the colours merge and work together in the sunlight. Crowley also enjoys the way Aziraphale exclaims over the flowers, and he can’t help the squirm in his stomach as Aziraphale declares he’ll have to come back to get some for the bakery. 

After waving Aziraphale off, Crowley notices several new flowers on some of the plants that he’d been speaking to. He’s pretty sure they weren’t there this morning, but there was no way they could bloom that quickly without him noticing, so he dismisses the idea that they’d been inspired by Aziraphale’s talk. But maybe he’d better check it out with the baker later, just in case he’d seen something that Crowley hadn’t. Yes, for science purposes he’d better talk to Aziraphale again, soon. 

*

Once he’s made his way through most of his work commitments later that week, he goes back to the bakery. Crowley opens the door to a line of customers stretching back to the wall, and multiple elderly ladies glaring at him in case he had the audacity to skip the queue for the morning bread.

To his embarrassment, Michael spots him and yells to the backroom. 

“Your boyfriend’s here, boss.”

There’s a bang from somewhere out of sight and Crowley hears Aziraphale spluttering. “Thank you, Michael, I’m sure you’ve got some icing to be doing?” Aziraphale comes to the door and Crowley bites down a smile at the non-too-subtle shooing motion he makes towards Michael. 

“Sure,” Michael says with a roll of their eyes. “It’s not like we’ve got twenty other customers to serve. Oh wait.”

“Fine, fine, who’s next?” Aziraphale impatiently raises his eyebrows and Marjorie from the chemist gapes at him before pointing to a loaf of bread. There’s a shelf of sourdough that’s quickly being depleted, and a small batch of brown crusty rolls on the counter that seem to be Aziraphale’s latest concoction. The seeded bagels also seem to be selling quickly, and Crowley hopes that there’s at least some baguettes left by the time he gets to the counter.

With the last lady in front of him heading out the door, Crowley finally reaches Aziraphale who avoids all eye contact, fumbling around under the counter before Crowley can say anything. Crowley can’t help grinning at the lovely shade of puce that has coloured Aziraphale’s cheeks, and points wordlessly to the last sourdough. 

“Thanks.” Crowley hands over his card and then snaps his fingers. “Oh, wait, I have something for you.” Fumbling in his bag, he brings out a carrier with a pot and some greenery sticking out the top. “It’s a peace lily, only a baby but it’ll grow quick. It can sit in the corner of the bakery and it’ll be fine if you forget it for a few days.”

Aziraphale finally looks up and gasps. “For me?” His face lights up and Crowley can practically feel the excitement rolling off him.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “No, for Michael, I just decided to rub your face in it – no, of course it’s for you,” he finishes hastily as he sees Aziraphale’s face drop. “Don’t thank me all at once.”

“Oh, oh, I love it Crowley, thank you.” Aziraphale’s hands flutter over the bag and pull out the pot, the leaves bringing a dash of greenery to the counter. “It’s a plant!”

Crowley stares at him. Maybe it wasn’t too late to re-evaluate this man’s intelligence. “Yes. Generally immobile green things are plants. Sometimes algae, but I don’t sell those.”

“Of course, of course, I’m sorry.” Aziraphale bites his lips and gently strokes a leaf with a fingertip. “You’re very beautiful, aren’t you? It’s wonderful. Thank you, my dear.”

“You’re welcome.” Crowley shrugs and hands him a small card where he’s hastily scribbled down some plant care notes. “He’ll be fine if you put him in the window and water him when you remember.”

“Perfect. I should probably warn you that I killed a cactus once, so it might be best if you check up on him every so often,” Aziraphale says with a small smile at Crowley. Crowley’s stomach does a funny summersault as he starts to wonder whether his definitely-not-feelings towards Aziraphale might not be completely unrequited. There’s no one else in the front shop, as Michael is somewhere in the back room, and Crowley’s mind scrambles to ask Aziraphale something. Anything, actually, before either of them leave and the moment is gone.

Mind wiped clean of normal conversation topics, Crowley panics. 

“Would you like to go and see the ducks?” he grits out, jaw clenched. “They like bread.” Idiot, he’s an idiot, the damned ducks don’t even like bread, they’re meant to have seeds instead and-

“I’d love to.” Aziraphale smiles and it’s like the world lights up a little bit more. “What a lovely idea. Now?”

“After five? Gives us both time to pack up?”

“Sounds good to me.” 

Crowley bites his tongue and his lips twitch involuntarily upwards. Stomach clenching as he realises he’s smiling like a loon, he makes finger guns at Aziraphale. “Cool, catch you later.” He grabs his bread and backs out the shop, spending the walk home berating himself for everything he said. Five o’clock rolls around and he still hasn’t finished half the tasks he had on his list, but suddenly it doesn’t matter. He closes up shop, dumps some water in various buckets and feeds some potted plants before catching sight of himself in the window. He looks how he feels, frazzled and out of control, but it’s too late now to change anything to be honest. He makes a bit of an effort with his hair, trying to tame the more unreasonable spikes into something sleek and stylish, and grabs his least stained jacket from the backroom and his sunglasses.

He’s wondering whether he should go and see if Aziraphale is ready when he spots him crossing the square in a cream jacket and trousers. If it wasn’t so in-fitting with his aesthetic, Crowley would have thought they were off to a renaissance fair, but it seems to suit Aziraphale well and Crowley’s not about to protest. He doesn’t quite know why he’s feeling like this, but maybe it really has been that long since he’s been on a date. Or an entirely platonic outing to see the village duckpond, depending on Aziraphale’s point of view.

“Hi.” Crowley raises a hand in greeting as Aziraphale comes up to the flower shop. “Ducks?”

“Ducks,” Aziraphale confirms. “I’ve been trying to explore the area day by day after the shop closes, but I’ve only seen them from a distance. I’m quite excited.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, they’re normally hiding,” Crowley says as they start to walk across the village. “If we cut up that path by the church we’ll come out on the green.”

“Bravo, lead on.” Aziraphale follows Crowley as they wander towards the duckpond. The ducks themselves are pretty disappointing by duck standards. There’s a big fat one which Crowley nicknamed Chunky a few weeks ago after it tried to eat a dead squirrel, and there’s a few runner ducks which always squabble and rush away whenever they see a human. Aziraphale seems content to watch them from a distance however, and they chat idly as the braver ducks wander around their feet in search for crumbs. Aziraphale talks about his old bookshop and the bakery, and Crowley is happy to listen to his musings on the village and offer the occasional hint on how to deal with the village population. Most of the time he stayed out of the village affairs, but he thought Aziraphale ought to know that there was once a protest when Mrs Tidball put raisins instead of currants in the iced buns. 

Aziraphale asks about his life in the village, how the florist shop came to be, and Lucy of course. When Aziraphale brings out two cinnamon rolls in a paper bag, Crowley knows he definitely made the right decision in befriending a baker. He hesitates to think that what they were doing was a date, but at the very least he’s got baked goods and good company, and that seems alright to him. 

Crowley knows the ducks aren’t meant to eat bread, but he can’t help sprinkling a few crumbs for Chunky, who gobbles them up happily. After satisfying their urge to see the ducks, they meander back to the square and pause outside Crowley’s front door, where Lucy is licking a paw and waiting for dinner.

“He’s such a good cat, aren’t you?” Aziraphale bends down to run a fond hand around Lucy’s head and scratch behind his ears. Eyes closed with pleasure, Lucy starts to purr. “The best kitty, that’s you.”

“Hmm. Yes.” Crowley frowns down at the cat and slides his sunglasses back onto his head. “The best cat who just coincidentally has a taste for human flesh.”

“Don’t be silly, he’s a good kitty.” Still petting the cat, Aziraphale narrows his eyes at him. “Crowley. Are you _jealous_?”

“What. No,” Crowley says quickly. Far too quickly.

“I don’t believe it! You are!” Aziraphale laughs. “Jealous of a cat.”

“I am not,” Crowley refutes to no avail. “He’s just normally not this nice to people, and certainly not to me. And I feed him.”

“If you say so.” Aziraphale says smugly and straightens up, glancing around the square as he stood. “This has been lovely. You know, I used to go to St. James’s Park every Sunday to watch the ducks when I was in London. They’re such characters, really quite dramatic at times.”

“Really?” Crowley asks out of interest. “That’s pretty close to where I used to live. Are you missing it at all?”

“My books, yes. The food, for sure. London? Not so much.” Aziraphale gestures around them at the small streets with the hills behind them. “The scenery here is much better, I must admit. And the smell is quite divine, considering the lack of stale beer and broken rubbish bags.”

“Yeah, I don’t miss that so much,” Crowley admits with a smile. “There’s some good pubs towards Oxford though. If you were interested in going sometime, I’d be happy to come with. If you fancied doing this again, that is. Like, as in, a date? But only if you wanted.” Willing his brain to shut the fuck up, Crowley resists the urge to facepalm and instead stares at the cat wandering around their feet. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims, and Crowley doesn’t know whether that’s a good noise or not. “Well, actually, I already thought this was a date. So we’re halfway there already, I think?”

“What.” Crowley’s brain feels like it’s being deep-fried, dropped in hot oil very quickly with no warning.

“I don’t get out much.” Aziraphale shrugs. “It’s pretty rare someone asks me anywhere that’s not either a book auction or an eleven-year old’s birthday party.”

“Fuck.” Crowley doesn’t quite know what his face is doing, but he can feel something twitching.

“Yeah, we can do that later, if you want,” Aziraphale says with a smile that makes Crowley’s mouth drop open. Stuttering over his words, he tries to say something coherent and instead ends up blinking a lot.

“Nice,” he says after a struggle of communication between his brain and his mouth. “Would you, uh, like a cup of coffee? Milk? Tea? I don’t actually have any tea, I’ve got mint tea though, maybe lemonade, wait it’s evening, maybe a beer-”

Aziraphale cuts him off. “Coffee sounds good to me,” he says. “But it’s not that late, maybe we could head to the pub?”

Crowley shudders in mock horror. “Oh no, angel, you don’t want to brave the pub grub just yet. Once you’ve forgotten about the gourmet scene in London, then it will seem edible.”

“That bad huh?” Aziraphale laughs. “Well, at least they’ve got no excuse about not having good enough bread.”

“That’s true, you do make good bread.”

“I try.” Aziraphale shrugs. There’s a pause as Crowley can’t stop staring at the crinkles on Aziraphale’s face when he smiles, and before he can help it he’s raised a hand up to Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale takes a small breath and closes the distance between them, soft lips pressed against Crowley’s. The kiss is short and sweet, Crowley’s eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he tastes sugar on Aziraphale’s tongue. They break apart slowly and Crowley has to look away from the gentle smile on Aziraphale’s face, or he feels he might say something he regrets. Such as, do you want a spring or a summer wedding, because I hate winter and it always rains in autumn. 

“So.” 

“Yeah.” Crowley breathes out slowly. 

“Do you want-”

“Fancy having- oh.” Crowley grins as they start to talk at the same time, and continues when Aziraphale gestures to go on. “I was going to ask if you wanted any dinner. Can’t promise London gastronomy, and I’m not feeling brave enough for the pub at the moment, but I’ve got leftover chili if you fancy it?”

“Yes, that sounds delightful.” 

“Great.” They smile at each other a bit more until Crowley realises he should probably open the front door. “Come in, I’ve got a bottle of something somewhere, I’m sure.”

His chili isn’t anything fancy, and they have to sit on the floor because his minimalistic furniture means there’s only one seat, but it’s still one of the best meals he’s ever had. Maybe next time he can drag Aziraphale to Oxford to explore some little restaurant there, and the thought that there may be a next time thrills him. They sit with the devil-cat between them, sharing the chili and lazily passing a bottle of wine back and forth, and Crowley thinks that he could quite happily do this for the foreseeable future. And judging by the look in Aziraphale’s eye, the thought is definitely reciprocated. 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


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